Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 308 The Pact of the Seven Knights

Beneath the Tower of Bliss, only the sound of the desert wind and the occasional bleating of ewes remained.

Euron Greyjoy broke the heavy silence, his question like a cold dagger pointing straight to the future: "Edward, what are you going to do next?"

Eddard remained seated on the ground, clutching Lyanna tightly, as if it were his final connection to the world. He raised his head, his grey eyes filled with weariness and resolve, his voice hoarse yet exceptionally clear: "Return to the North, bury my sister. And then—" His gaze swept over the infant who had fallen asleep again in Ashara's arms, and he said firmly, "I will raise him to adulthood."

Euron sighed and said, "Do you know how to feed a goat, or change a diaper? The journey back to the North is more than a thousand miles, and you're carrying a newborn and a—" He paused, not saying the word "corpse," but the meaning was clear, "—how do you plan to get there?"

Ed closed his eyes in pain, shook his head, and his voice lowered: "With a sword in hand, I can face any enemy."

But how do I get the kids to eat and sleep—I'm really bad at it.

Euron stepped forward, crouched down, and looked Eddard in the eye. His voice was low, but every word struck Eddard's heart like a hammer: "Even if you can! So, you intend to just carry your sister's corpse, and then carry her and Rhaegar's son, parading through the streets, telling everyone in the Seven Kingdoms—look, my sister Lyanna Stark had a bastard child with Rhaegar Targaryen!"

These words were like a poisonous thorn, precisely piercing Ed's deepest pain and most realistic fear. He wanted to rage, to use "ice" to silence Euron, but immense sorrow and an equally immense predicament extinguished his last ounce of strength like ice water. He opened his mouth, but ultimately, not even a spark of anger could ignite; only boundless bewilderment and heaviness remained.

Euron's gaze, like an icicle, pierced through the brief barrier Ed had erected with sorrow. He brought up a recent incident...

A bloody example: "Do you remember Ariana Hoan and her child? The baby who was thrown to his death on the steps of the Red Keep."

He gave Eddard no respite, laying bare the cruelest possibility: "Robert is in King's Landing, waiting for us to bring back news of Lyanna. You heard him swear to wipe out all dragons. Think about it, if Robert knew of this child's existence—what would he do? Would he allow a baby boy with Rhaegar's blood to live?"

Ed clenched his fists suddenly, a flame of defense igniting in his grey eyes, his voice trembling with excitement: "I will protect him! I swear on my life! As long as I live, no one can harm him!"

"I believe you will, you definitely will!" Euron's tone was almost cruelly calm as he sighed, "Have you thought about your wife in Riverrun? Catelyn Tully, she's there waiting for your safe return, and she's already given birth to your son, your son Robb Stark." He deliberately emphasized "son" and "your son," "How do you intend to explain this child's origins to her? How do you intend to explain to the entire North that you suddenly have a baby?"

Ed opened his mouth, trying to find an answer: "I'll tell her—"

"Tell her what?" Euron interrupted mercilessly, "Tell her the truth, that this is Rhaegar and Lyanna's son? That would be like hanging a sword of Damocles over the heads of everyone in Winterfell. Or—" Euron lowered his voice, offering that shocking yet undeniably realistic option, "Announce to the world that this is your bastard son, Ned Stark?"

Ed looked up abruptly as if he had been burned, his eyes filled with humiliated anger.

Euron looked him straight in the eye and shattered his illusions, word by word: "Anyone who knows you knows you are a rock of honor, a cold, hard stone of the North. Who would believe you would suddenly return with a bastard? No one would believe that the upright Eddard Stark would do such a thing."

Ed stood frozen in place, every word Euron spoke like a hammer blow to his heart. For the first time, he clearly saw that what lay before him was a path fraught with thorns, no matter which way he chose.

Euron's gaze shifted to Asara, who was patiently feeding her child goat milk. Her profile appeared exceptionally soft in the blood-red sunset.

He looked at Eddard again and offered a completely different plan, his tone as calm as if he were deploying a battle: "Let him go back to Dorne with Ashraf." Euron pointed to the baby, "I will announce to the world that this is an orphan we adopted during the war. Now that the Seven Kingdoms are ravaged, it is only natural to have another child without parents."

He paused, then pointed out the most practical pros and cons: "With Ashara taking care of him personally, he can at least grow up safely and healthily. This is far better than following you now, carrying Lyanna's body on the long journey back to the North, risking starvation halfway there, or other unknown risks."

Euron continued to outline his future plans, his words carrying an undeniable air of authority: "I will give him the Greyjoy name and treat him as my own son. But when he turns eight, when he is old enough to understand," his gaze returned to Eddard, "I will send him to the North, to Winterfell, to become your adopted son and brother of your son Robb."

This plan, like an intricately woven net, attempted to carve out a glimmer of hope for the child amidst the cracks of cruel reality. It buried the truth in the yellow sands of Dorne and the salt fog of the Iron Islands, constructing the strongest fortress with lies.

Ed's gaze lingered on Ashara for a long time.

At that moment, she was intently holding the baby, carefully guiding him to suckle the goat's milk. The baby, satisfied with being warmed and fed, made soft, contented smacking sounds, and even an unconscious, innocent smile bloomed on his milk-stained little face.

The Dornish sun shone on Ashara, outlining her lowered eyelashes and focused profile. Her almost instinctive gentleness and delicacy formed a stark contrast to the desolate landscape that had just witnessed bloodshed and death.

Gazing at this scene, feeling the tranquility and vitality that could almost melt steel, Eddard Stark's heart, tightly bound by sorrow and burden, seemed to have a crack pried open. Reason told him that Euron's plan was cold and calculating, even carrying the Iron Islands' domineering nature.

But this heartwarming scene before him, coupled with the most pressing issue of the child's survival, forced him to admit that, at this moment, among all the possibilities he could think of, he couldn't find a better option. Euron's method would both keep the child away from Robert's wrath and allow him to grow up safely in a loving environment.

This realization, carrying both immense helplessness and a sense of relief, weighed heavily on Ed's shoulders.

Ed nodded heavily, as if this simple action had exhausted all his strength. Deep in his gray eyes was the weariness of compromise and the helpless acceptance of this only way out.

Euron's gaze swept over the others present, seeking a final consensus: "What do you all think?"

Oberyn nodded almost immediately, a hint of disdain for the people of King's Landing flashing in his narrow eyes. "I agree," he said crisply. "I have never trusted anyone sitting on the Iron Throne. They will do anything to consolidate their power." In his mind, keeping children out of King's Landing's sight was a form of protection.

Then, everyone's eyes turned to the three silent Imperial Guards.

Gerald, Arthur, and Oswell exchanged a glance, a look filled with complex emotions: lingering loyalty, mourning for the fallen dynasty, but ultimately, all coalescing into a sense of responsibility for new life. They spoke no words, only nodding solemnly in succession; they understood better than anyone the treacherous nature of the center of power.

This action symbolizes that they laid down their weapons to continue the protection they had failed to achieve, and instead used silent recognition to perpetuate it.

Beneath the Tower of Bliss, a brief and fragile consensus was reached on this sanctuary plan built on lies and helplessness.

Euron turned his gaze to the three white-robed knights who had just resigned themselves to death, and asked them a simple and direct question: "And you?"

What are your plans for the future?

Arthur Dayne glanced down at his white robes, stained with sand and blood, and at the insignia on his chest that had once symbolized supreme glory. A bitter smile touched his lips. He slowly raised his hand and untied the straps securing his shoulder armor, the movement filled with resolute determination and despair. "I haven't thought about it much," his voice was low, "but I am no longer worthy to wear this white robe and silver armor." This was not affectation, but a complete denial of his own worth after his beliefs had crumbled.

Ser Gerald Hightower, the "White Bull," looked up at the unfamiliar, azure sky of Dorne, his eyes filled with a sense of desolation. "Originally—I only sought the end of a knight's life." He paused, his voice hoarse, "Now, I want to live. At least—I want to see that child grow up." However, this newfound thought was immediately followed by a deeper sense of bewilderment, "But—the world is vast, and I have nowhere to go." King's Landing would not welcome a "negligent" Iron Guard, and everywhere else was merely a strange place of exile for him.

Ser Oswell Hoan's gaze turned northward, as if piercing through the mountains to see the scarred Harrenhal. A painful clarity flickered across his bloodless face. "You're right—" he repeated, his voice low but resolute, "I should return to Harrenhal now. Ariana—she needs me. If even this old man dies here, the Hoan family—will truly have no future." The responsibility of his family, like an invisible chain, pulled him back from the brink of death to the weight of reality.

After losing the royal power and prince they swore to protect, the three Royal Guards each need to find a new direction on this red sand, whether by force, helplessness, or necessity; otherwise, they will have no motivation to live.

Euron looked at the three knights who had just finished their mission, shrugged, and said, "If you don't mind, I'd really like to recruit you. After all, your skills and experience are top-notch anywhere." He then changed the subject, his expression knowing, "But I think you probably wouldn't agree to serve a pirate king of the Iron Islands."

His gaze deepened slightly as he continued, "Knights who have lost their former glory often need to rediscover their honor and worth in a completely different place. Since you have already voluntarily taken off your white robes—" He paused deliberately, then clearly uttered the name, "then why not consider donning black?"

"White Bull" Jero and Arthur Dayne looked up almost simultaneously, a hint of surprise and contemplation flashing in their eyes: "You mean—the Great Wall?"

Euron nodded affirmatively. "Indeed. The Night's Watch will certainly open its doors to warriors like you. However," he added, with a hint of cold humor in his voice, "the White Walkers and wildlings beyond the Wall will likely not welcome you."

This suggestion was like a ray of light, illuminating their uncertain path ahead.

Gerald and Arthur exchanged a glance and smiled softly in unison. Their smiles held a sense of relief, a quiet acceptance of their fate. For them, who had lost everything and had nowhere to go, guarding the Wall and becoming Night's Watchmen might truly be a good ending.

Perhaps, it is also the only destination.

Beneath the Tower of Bliss, a hot wind swirled sand and gravel. Euron's usual playful expression vanished, replaced by an unusual seriousness. He surveyed everyone present—Edward, Oberyn, the three white-robed knights who had removed their armor, and Ashara, who was holding the baby.

"Regarding this child," Euron's voice was clear and firm, like a hammer striking a rock, "we must make a vow. His existence will be a secret belonging only to a select few, never to be revealed. We must keep it a secret from our parents, brothers, wives, and even the king. The fewer people who know the truth, the safer he will be."

His gaze swept across every face, seeking the most steadfast commitment. Eddard Stark nodded heavily; for his sister's bloodline, he was willing to bear this secret. Oberyn Martell's lips curled into a slight smile, carrying the Dornish spirit of untamed resolve and commitment.

The three knights, Gerald, Arthur, and Oswell, nodded in agreement, vowing to protect this old orphan with renewed loyalty.

Seeing everyone's unanimous agreement, Euron's signature smile, a blend of boldness and untamed spirit, returned. He proclaimed loudly, "In that case, let us make a pact here today! To protect this child, our Six Knights Pact is hereby established!"

Just then, Asara, who had been listening quietly, stepped forward, holding the sleeping baby. Her clear gaze swept over the men present, her voice gentle yet carrying an undeniable strength: "Honorable knights, it seems you've overlooked one person. And what about me?"

Euron was taken aback for a moment, then burst into hearty laughter that carried far across the desert. He nodded vigorously, correcting himself, "That's right! I overlooked something. It's not the Pact of the Six Knights, it's the Pact of the Seven Knights!"

Seven people, for the sake of an infant's future, formed a secret alliance that transcended families and regions amidst the ruins of the old dynasty and the shadow of the new.

The Tower of Bliss stands silently, becoming the sole witness to this extraordinary vow.

In the narrow shadow cast by the Tower of Bliss, seven figures stood in a circle. A small clearing had been made in the center of the red sand, and the seven stood in a circle with the sleeping baby placed between them.

Oberyn Martell stepped forward first, drew his Dorn dagger, and without hesitation drew a thin line in his palm. The blood dripped into the sand, where it was quickly absorbed and congealed. "The red sand of House Martell is my witness," he said in a deep voice, his gaze sweeping over the crowd.

Eddard Stark silently stepped forward, gently piercing his thumb with the tip of his sword, "Frost," and releasing a drop of Northern blood into the sands of Dorne. "In the name of the Stark direwolves," he said, his voice as resolute as the north wind.

The three former Kingsguard exchanged glances. Arthur Dayne traced the blade of "Dawn" across his fingertip, followed by Gerald Hightower and Oswell Heane. Three drops of blood fell in succession, symbolizing the end of the old oath and the beginning of a new one. "We swear by the white robes we have laid down," they said in unison.

Euron laughed as he slashed his palm, letting the blood flow freely: "May the waves that drown the gods bear witness!"

Ashara Dayne slashed her palm with her dagger: "By the honor of the Dayne family!"

Seven weapons of different shapes were intertwined on the blood-red sand: the chilling "Ice", the holy "Dawn", the treacherous Dorne spear, the heavy knight's sword, the blood-stained River's Broadsword, Euron's pair of longswords, and Ashara's dagger.

"Today we pledge our oath," Euron's voice echoed through the sand valley, "that we seven pledge our oath with blood as the bond and sword as the witness."

"I will protect this child until my dying breath!" Ed's vow struck like ice.

"The secret will be buried forever, witnessed by the sun and moon!" Oberyn's promise was like the whisper of a venomous snake.

As the final vow dissipated in the hot wind, seven hands pressed down on the hilt of the sword. The blades rang out with a crisp sound, and the blood and sand between the blades emitted a faint, fishy odor.

Euron bent down and scooped up the blood-soaked sand, carefully wrapping it in a piece of sheepskin. "This is our covenant." He handed the blood-soaked sand to Asara. "When we reunite in the future, this shall be the proof of our covenant. When he grows up, if one day—and I mean if—any of us feels it is necessary to tell him his true identity or make it public, at least four of us seven must agree."

The child's identity was too sensitive; this was an extra step in protecting him. Everyone nodded in agreement. Ed was particularly impressed, as if Euron could always think things through completely, no matter what.

The winds of the Tower of Bliss swept across seven resolute faces. This covenant, born between death and rebirth, was thus forged amidst swords and blood-soaked sand.

There are no scholarly records, no singers to commemorate it, only seven pairs of eyes that remember this secret that could change the fate of Westeros.

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